White Palace
by AlreadyPainfullyGone
Summary: Based on the film. Castiel is a young widower, Dean is ten years older and works at a White Palace fast food joint. They meet one night and drunkenly Dean takes advantage of Castiel. Their relationship begins there, and it isn't easy. Some Non-con. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

_Ok, so there's a move called 'White Palace' where a younger man with a dead wife meets an older White Palace waitress and they start sleeping together. Young uptight guy and older bit of rough...this is where my mind went as soon as Dean said 'White Castle' in 'My bloody valentine'. Consequently some of the lines are the same, and so far so's the plot, bar a few changes._

Castiel is late, rushing through evening traffic with his tie undone and fifty burgers slowly seeping their juices into the upholstery of his car. The food is for Sam's bachelor party, though he doesn't know Sam that well anymore.

He takes the long white boxes into the hall where a large canvas screen is already set up. A slide projector shines out pictures of all of them, all Sam's college buddies, one by one. Castiel sets the boxes on a trestle table and swiftly moves away from the stench of White Castle. The other guys are wearing tuxes just like his, though Castiel is the neatest, obsessively so. A stripper, already topless and clad in just her short skirt and heels, is caught in the arms of Zachariah, one of Sam's old fraternity brothers. The room is smoky and dark, there's alcohol, which Castiel doesn't touch, and the burgers, which he doesn't want.

"Hey, Cas?" A lanky blond guy shakes an empty burger container. "Some of these are empty...there's like...twelve empty boxes."

"Oh leave it, come on." Sam's watching the stripper, the images of his friends, youthful and happy that are projected on the screen.

"No" Castiel gathers up the empties. "I'll go back."

"Cas..."

"It's the principle." He says shortly, already finding his car keys in his pocket.

He drives back to the White Castle, parking at the curb and pushing open the door. Inside a long line stretches around the counter, steam and the scent of frying fills the air and in the kitchen voices rise and fall in the familiar pattern of ordering and pickups.

At the cash register a man maybe ten years older than Castiel is scribbling orders. His waist apron is stained, his shirt faded and dampened with steam and sweat. His brown hair is messy, his face tired and resigned to the eternal cue of straggling drunks, harassed mothers and teenagers. His dark green eyes fix on Castiel, the only man in the entire place wearing a tux.

Castiel cuts the line and dumps the boxes on the counter, ignoring the angry calls from the back of the cue.

"And your problem is?" The server's gone back to his shorthand list of orders, counting change with one hand and scribbling with the other.

"These boxes are empty, in an order of fifty you gave me twelve empty boxes." Castiel slides one across for his inspection. "I'd like the remainder, please."

"And how do I know you didn't just gobble 'em down outside?" He folds the slips of paper deftly and slides them over a metal spike. The register drawer bangs shut as he thrusts his hip against it, turning to face Castiel fully. A name badge pinned to his chest shows his name. Dean.

"Because I don't gobble" clipped tones emphasising every word. "and I don't lie". The older man's tired face shifts from a smile to a scowl and back again, like he isn't sure whether he's entertained or pissed off.

"I'll get you the other burgers." He says eventually, scribbling another order and adding it to the pile.

"Thank you Dean" It's the way he says it, all together like he's been using his name for years, that makes Dean look up.

"That's my job, Next!" he flips his attention to the next person in line. Castiel waits by the side, watching the cars pass by through the darkened window. Eventually a cardboard carton nudges his elbow. Dean presses the burgers into his hands, burnt and stained skin meeting clean nails and pale fingers.

Castiel nods in acceptance and leaves.

The other men are gathered around the screen, dividing their attentions between it and the stripper. Castiel deposits the newly filled boxes next to the pile of ravaged cardboard and takes a seat.

In the darkness of the room he feel wrapped and safe, there are people around, people to distract him from his own dire imaginings. No sooner has he thought it than the picture of the screen changes. It show him as a college student. A good memory.

The screen shifts again. The white of Anna's skin exudes light, brightening the room with a halo of reflected brilliance.

Sam swears quietly and goes to change the slide, tipping over three glasses. Anna remains projected on the wall, as beautiful as they day they married.

The screen goes dark.

"I'm so sorry Cas" Sam is drunk and sloppy as he tries to make amends. "I'm so...someone get him a drink."

"I don't drink Sam" Castiel reminds him gently.

"Well you should" Sam explodes, slapping him on the back. "God...it's been two years and you're still miserable – live a little!" Castiel shrugs him off, he doesn't want to deal with this tonight.

"I'm going home." He says quietly, ducking out and ignoring Sam's shout of, "Go get laid, you deserve it!" He has no idea why he considers Sam a friend, mostly he's a semi-welcome distraction.

Drive back to his steel and glass lakeside home he passes a bar, the kind with flashing neon legs kicking in the air, pink and massive. Metal signs advertising beer cover the outside. He continues for almost exactly four minutes before turning the car around and driving back.

Inside the bar is much like the bachelor party, except there are fewer men watching more naked women. There's less smoke and a great deal less forced joviality, so it's an improvement.

Castiel orders his first drink since Anna died, two years ago. Double scotch.

He's on his fifth when he realises that there's one set of eyes not trained on the woman grinding against the pole on the heavily lit stage. Two seats away, the server from the burger restaurant is looking at him through the gloom. Castiel really hopes he doesn't recognise him.

"I know you?" his voice slurs but only a little, rougher and less practically disinterested.

"I don't think so" Castiel gets up, tossing money onto the bar. His legs feel heavy, the heat of the alcohol blending across his groin and stomach in a pleasant bottomless haze. His hands are freezing.

"I met you at work." Dean thumps the bar. "Hey, drink for my friend here." The long suffering barman measures out another scotch. Castiel waves off Dean's offer of crumpled bills.

"I'll get it" he says, placatingly. Dean frowns.

"No, my order, my money. Here" he passes the drink over. "Pass the peace pipe or whatever."

From his other hand Dean takes a pull on a cigarette. He looks different out of his yellow and red T-shirt, nubby flannel shirt and jeans adding to the strength and solidity of his frame. "What'r you doing here anyway? Hole like this."

"I wanted a drink."

"Well, face like yours, keep your guard up." He calls to the barman again. "Hey Jimmy, isn't he a pretty face?"

Castiel feels a blush in his cheeks, uncomfortable tension in his stomach. The alcohol is no longer liberating but disorientating. The blurry shapes of the women cavorting, the men watching in darkness and stillness – bleed together. He feels sick.

"What?" he blinks, stupidly.

"I said, you got a wife?" Dean downs his shot, he's moved up a few seats, now directly beside him, a worried hand on his knee. "You don't look so great."

"My wife's gone" Castiel mumurs, the weight of it sinking through the liquor, burning on it's way.

"She leave you?" Dean smirks, he's baiting him, making him uncomfortable on purpose. Castiel shakes his head.

"I'm going to go..."

"Awww, wait..."

"Get your hand off my thigh." Castiel's unease and confusion is evident in his slurring voice.

"My hand's not on your thigh." Dean drawls, finishing his cigarette whilst his hand, strong and broad, cups Castiel's groin through the thin fabric of his pants. The younger man's eyes flutter closed for a second. Then he eases away from Dean's touch and his speculative eyes. Striding hazily away down the length of the bar.

"Sorry 'bout your lady dumping ya" Dean rattles, accepting another shot from the barman. Castiel freezes.

"She didn't exactly dump me."

"Oh yeah?"

"She died." Castiel leans heavily on the bar.

Dean laughs, sudden and rough. "How?"

"Her car, flipped over." Castiel grinds out.

Dean laughs again, drunk and out of control and hurting somehow.

"I'm sorry...I don't know why I'm..." again he laughs. "your wife died!"

"Maybe no one's ever died on you before." Castiel snarls.

"No..." Dean's laugh dies. "Ben died."

"That your friend?" Castiel can't keep the bitterness from his voice.

"No. Ben was my son, near enough anyway."

Castiel is stunned, even through the alcohol. All he can manage is, "Goodbye."

He reaches his car and is just fumbling the keys when Dean comes up behind him.

"You're drunk" he points out. "You want to come to mine? Sober up a little?"

Castiel shakes his head fiercely.

"How about giving me a ride then? I missed my bus." Dean senses the younger man giving a little. "it's not far."

Castiel relents, letting Dean into the car. He weaves his way dangerously through the backstreets, following Dean's directions, eventually they end up at a bungalow with a porch on the front, swathed in plastic grass. Castiel hits Dean's mail box. They both climb out, Castiel stumbling and landing on the lawn. Dean grasps his hand and drags him upright, swaying as he does so.

"Come on, you're too drunk to drive anymore." He makes his way up the porch steps "Don't slip on the astro-turf." He barks a laugh. Castiel follows.

Inside the bungalow is messy and stale smelling, like Dean hasn't done more than wake up and bed down here for a while. Next to the door a sign reads 'Same Shit, Different Day' there are beer bottles on the coffee table and a dull brown couch.

In the kitchenette Dean crashes around in search of coffee. He reappears in the doorway, shaking an empty coffee can.

"I'm out" he grins "fix you a drink instead?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I'm already too drunk..."

"Well if you can't drive you might as well drink." He hesitates. "and the couch..it, uh, opens up into a bed. So you could..." Castiel slumps onto the couch, already a third passed out. Dean tuts somewhere overhead, heaping a scratchy blanket onto the comatose figure.

Castiel dreams of Anna. She's light and beautiful as ever, delicate and pale. Her limbs feel silken and warm next to his. For the first time in the last two years he feels complete, loved. Her hand strokes the hair from his face.

"Anna...you're so beautiful..." she kisses him sweetly on the mouth.

Her lips move to his cheek, his jaw, down his neck. Once they reach his chest they become strangely demanding, moving lower, hungrier. He has never known Anna like this, base and lustful.

A glorious feeling spreads over his cock, hot, wet, depth that teases every inch of him. Anna sighs her pleasure against his skin, their airy bedroom a backdrop to their reunion.

He wakes up.

The soft light room dissolves into a dingy pre-dawn living space, smelling of beer and unwashed laundry. Anna disappears, her softness and sweet face whisking away like smoke in a harsh blast of air.

The mouth on his cock doesn't go anywhere.

A gasp drags at his throat, a wrecked and distraught sound. Dean's head bobs up and down again and Castiel feels heat and wet and the dry scrape of his lips beneath a coating of saliva. He tries to move, to move away, to get _out._ Because he doesn't want this, has never wanted this.

Strong hands push his hips down, crushing them into the couch. Dean moans around the weight of the flesh passing through his lips, pressing into his throat. It hums like a snarl along Castiel's raw nerves. He whimpers, hands seeking anything to hold on to, to push away from the sensations ripping his lower half into pieces. Dean's fingers move under him, roughly thumbing Castiel's entrance. His hips jerk upwards, away from the intrusion, slamming himself back through Dean's slick lips with a grunt. Teeth scrape him and he can only moan shakily.

Castiel can't fight both Dean and the treacherous impulses of his body. He turns his face from Dean's dark head for a moment, before being drawn back to the sights, the sounds, of his actions.

Dean's head moves faster, motions that would seem greedy, obscenely ugly, but Castiel's already whiting out in flickers, unable to move, to breathe. Dean's tongue works every part of him, tasting his head, teasing the uncut skin there. Abandoning them to open himself wider, deep throating with a restrained groan.

Castiel realises he's swallowing in time with the movements of Dean's throat around him. Licking around his own mouth, hands clenching in the couch cushions. He can't think beyond the wet, scorching convulsions of such tender liquid flesh. He sobs out a sound, brokenly, heaving his hips upwards against the restraining pressure. Two of Dean's fingers, slicked inadequately with saliva, push unexpectedly through his entrance. His cry of pain is barely born when they strike his prostate, cutting off any other sensation. Dean's mouth and his fingers – the world narrows to those things and those things only. Castiel squirms in his own sweat, body twitching, bucking without his control. He slams against the rough fingers, fetching up against Dean's grasping, hungry throat.

"God...don't..." one last denial, one last attempt to stop it. He breaks, shattering in waves of hot come, headed straight into a strangers mouth. Dean groans shakily, fingers still working as he quickly licks Castiel clean. Shuddering on the couch, sweaty skin feeling more chilled by the second, Castiel nearly curses as Dean's mouth frames his hole, tongue driving in alongside his fingers.

"Fu...oh, no...nu-uh" he moves away from the flicking pressure, the wet stirring that feels alien and ecstatic. But then his own hand finds his valiantly twitching cock, stroking the tender skin in time with the laves of Dean's tongue.

Dean pulls away abruptly, shoving his jeans down with one swift motion, Castiel is too boneless to move, or even register the change until Dean is on him, nudging his legs opn, throwing them up against Castiel's chest, exposing him. One hard thrust splits him open, reaching far, far up inside and brushing a part of him that burns with heat and makes light pulse behind his tightly squeezed eyelids. Dean takes a long shaking breath, expelling a guttural moan. A rough hand rubs Castiel's jaw.

"Look at me" he grows, throat fucked out and raw. "Look...at..." Castiel looks, eyes opening to Dean.

His hips press Castiel down into the sagging cushion, his weight almost unbearable.

"So pretty..." he gasps, mouth wrenching a kiss from Castiel that tastes of semen and salt tears that Castiel doesn't remember letting go of. "You're so...fucking..." Castiel turns his face away even as he cries out in pleasure, Dean drives further into the tight heat that's strangling him, losing his rhythm.

"Please..." Dean's voice cracks, desperate pushes betraying his nearness to the edge. "Don't do that..."

Castiel realises Dean wants to see him come, watch him strain and quake under his heated body. A lance of insane arousal goes through him, followed by shame. He turns his head back to Dean, eyes meeting his as Dean's hand pumps his neglected dick to a punishing rhythm.

"Don't..." and he's gone, gasping out his orgasm as the older man spurts inside of him, thrusting hard and collapsing against him.

Ten minutes later the older man is asleep, comatose with drink. Castiel stares at the ceiling, trapped and aching with shame and fear. He feels very young all of a sudden.

He wakes up with Dean on his side next to him, wriggling out from under the blanket he fastens his pants, fumbling his shirt buttons. Dean sleeps on, mumbling slightly in his sleep, slumber mussed and almost angelic with his soft mouth and almost feminine cheekbones. Castiel breaks the thought. Reluctant to just walk out without having it out with him first, he explores Dean's home.

In a drawer by his messy bed Castiel finds an old rosary, a picture of a dark haired boy who might be Ben and some dog tags belonging to John Winchester. The next drawer down holds a utilitarian sex toy, something Castiel has never seen in real life. There's lubricant next to it. Castiel briefly imagines it in use, Dean's back bunching and flexing as he holds himself over the latex cock, thrusting down with a groan only to rise up again. He rubs his finger over the head.

Dean coughs from the doorway.

"You're still here." Dean sounds pleased but surprised.

"Yes" Castiel's voice nearly cracks despite himself. He stands up, dropping the cylinder to the bed. Dean raises his eyebrows but doesn't mention it.

"Well" Dean stretches, and for an older man he's still in good shape, just roughened, coarser than Castiel with his smooth, pale, body. "Hope you had a good time...you needed it"

So Dean saw it as doing him a favour. Castiel regretted not leaving before. Without a word he picked up his suit jacket, striding to the door.

"What's your name?" Dean asks, unconcerned by the hasty exit.

"Castiel" he replies, shortly, hand already on the door.

"Thought you might be about to surprise me there, Cas" Dean mutters with a touch of regret. Castiel lets the door close behind him.

That day he visits Anna's grave. He rakes the leaves away from it, tends the struggling flowers that grow there.

_Look at me..._

He eats an apple on his own in his living room, an aria playing quietly in the background.

_So pretty..._

He's hard, he realises after a while, almost surprised.

He goes out to his car and drives to the edges of the city, circling, he passes the park, downtown shopping district and city hall. He ends up outside the White Castle, watching Dean through the window, scratching out order, pushing his hair out of his sun beaten, lightly lined face.

He shudders to himself. Aching.

That night he finds his way back to Dean's bungalow. He knocks, waiting as Dean crosses to the door in his work socked feet. He opens the front door but not the screen.

"Well I didn't think I'd see you again" Dean leans against the wall behind his screen door, beer dangling from his fingers. "You ran out of here rabbit quick this morning."

Castiel feels himself flush, fluttering in his chest alerting him to the nerves this man wreaks in him.

"I brought you another mail box" he feels foolish. "I hit the other one last night."

Dean seems to digest this, still looking at Castiel like he's trying to work out if he's going to jump him.

"I'm 43" he says instead. "44 in December"

"I'm 27" They stare at each other for a long moment. Dean's eyes tell him that he knows exactly why Castiel is here. He shoves open the screen door and pulls him inside.

Castiel ends up sprawled on Dean's tangled, smoke scented bed. He can only cling to the broader mans shoulders and back as he's fucked. There's no other word for it. It's needy, hard and raw, Dean grunting filthy compliments into Castiel's shoulder, Castiel begging, for what he can't decide – harder, deeper, more.

They settle side by side, both too breathless and slick with sweat to make conversation. Castiel feels sore, used but satiated in a way he can't remember ever being before.

Dean looks at him like he's precious, like he's still unsure how he got Castiel here and has no idea how he's going to keep him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Yeah, I went through a james spader phase a while ago...coming soon – Secretary AU! Updates may slow because of Christmas and other actual work deadlines __ but I have not forgotten. _

Castiel can just about justify the new arrangement. It's just sex, people have casual sex all the time, it was barely a taboo subject anymore. All he was doing was releasing tension, finding an outlet for his grief and frustration.

Of course it was only half true. Most straight men didn't turn after being practically assaulted by an older, drunk, stranger. They probably wouldn't go back looking for round two, anyway. But he had. Nothing he could tell himself justified the idea that it was normal, going from being a celibate widower to moaning like a whore while Dean fucked him slowly into the mattress.

Either way he still ended up in Dean's bungalow most nights. Stripping off his tie and suit coat and lying across the older man's lap in the lurid glow of the portable television. Dean stroked him, hands wandering as they shucked off his clothes. Castiel wound up naked and bucking into Dean's waiting arms, rough denim and soft flannel alternately scraping and soothing his skin.

Dean remained in control, which was ideal as far as Castiel was concerned. He wanted no responsibility for this. Like the first time, held down on Dean's couch, he wanted total deniability. So Dean stayed mostly clothed, at least initially, and Castiel always bottomed for him. There was something about the way Dean felt, on top of him, inside of him, that was strangely addictive. The almost suffocating weight and strength holding him down, almost forcing him and blurring deliciously between tenderness and brutality.

He's so unlike Anna, and the tender, controlled lovemaking that characterised their year of marriage. He remembers laying his slim body against hers, sliding inside, moving gently and murmuring against her hair. His nights with Dean are wildly different, but he enjoys them nonetheless, the feeling of being taken, knowing that he won't break, that neither of them need to be careful or gentle with each other.

Though sometimes Dean doesn't allow him the protection of denial. He presses just past the tight ring of muscle at Castiel's entrance, then stops, panting as the younger man writhes and arches. He wants Castiel to want him, not just to let him take what he wants.

"Say please." His voice comes out a husky but strained whisper. Castiel shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut. "C'mon...just 'please'...just for me." It can take seconds or long torturous minutes, but Castiel will break, eyes opening and catlike pink tongue chasing across his lips.

"Please..." croaked out, whimpering as Dean slides slowly, deliciously, through the clenched flesh of his opening. Pausing, waiting. "Please, Dean..." Finally hitting home, Dean nips his jaw, licking the mark.

The things that come out of his mouth stay with Castiel for days. Filthy, barefaced words about how tight he feels, how hot he burns, the ways in which Dean wants him, the things he'd like to do, and does.

"Such a sweet fuck, aren't you?" Dean groans into his shoulder, barely thrusting, just grinding deep enough to burn all the way up Castiel's spine. "God you're so..." Castiel whimpers, arching and squeezing himself around him, desperate for friction. Dean gives in and starts moving again, Castiel can only hold on, legs folded into his chest, the occasional broken 'please...' his only contribution. Dean keeps up a steady litany. "Can't wait to see you on your knees...so beautiful...I'll show you, would you like that? Being able to make me come like I made you? Hard enough to...oh fuck!" breathlessly he loses himself, Castiel feels burning warmth hit hard inside of him. He squirms, feeling it squeeze through his tensing muscles.

Dean jerks Castiel furiously; thought dissolves as he sweats and breaks, spending with a ragged groan.

They don't do much aside from fuck. There's the television, but that's mainly foreplay. Afterwards they eat - chips, or apples, something that doesn't take much effort. Dean just likes to watch Castiel, naked on the faded sheets, debauched, bruised and sated. They stroke each other and curl up, warm and comfortable.

Privately, and possibly because he's getting older, Dean enjoys this the most.

A month into the arrangement Castiel notices that Dean is asking more and more questions about his life. Who his friends are, what he does at work and where he goes when he isn't with Dean. They aren't bitter, nagging questions, just mildly curious.

They terrify him.

He's become used to Dean's home being an oasis away from his regular life. Now the other man is finding a way into the rest of his world. Castiel doesn't know if he's ready for that – if he even wants to be.

The decision is taken out of his hands when he lies to Dean about his brother's birthday. He claims he's going to be at a meeting all night, to avoid possibly having to take Dean to Gabriel's party. Dean accepts his lie at face value.

After the party, a fairly dull formal affair that bore little of Gabriel's taste in mind. He ends up at Dean's, the place is in darkness and when he opens the front door none of the lights will flick on.

"Dean?"

"Out here." His voice carries from the back porch, thickened with drink. It makes him uneasy.

"Why are the lights out?" he asks, opening the other screen and stepping out on to the porch.

"Because I didn't pay the bill." Dean takes another swig of whisky. "aren't poor people a hoot?" He's wrapped in his leather jacket and looks every one of his 43 years. Castiel sinks into the chair opposite, formal slacks not keeping out the cold.

"Why'd you tell me you were at work?" Dean begins conversationally, and Castiel's heart drops like lead. Dean doesn't look at him, just continues with his train of thought. "I hate the dark you know? Always, since I was a kid." He stares reflectively into his drink. "I got home late and it was dark, thought I'd call you, see if you were coming over."

"Dean..."

"Who'd you take to the party Cas?" Dean squints at him. "Your secretary told me that's where you were. So who'd you take? Some blond with a perky ass and a college education?" He laughs bitterly into his half empty glass. "Won't hold a candle to be in the fucking department, but I guess she won't embarrass you either..."

"You don't embarrass me Dean." He tries to be honest, it's not Dean that embarrasses him, it's his family, his friends – they're so different.

"Who the fuck are you kidding, Cas?" Dean's voice looses its casual tone, an edge creeping in. "you get pissy every time I ask about what you do when you're not here...you lied to me just to keep me out of this thing."

"Because I'm not sure, about you." Castiel admits, quietly. "I don't even know that this is and I...I've never wanted anyone this much before."

"You're saying you love me more than your wife...nice one Cas."

"I'm saying I want you more, there's a difference." Castiel's cold fingers brush Dean's temple, his palm soft against Dean's stubble.

Dean's voice is soft and low when he speaks again. Tired and wounded at its core.

"Want me or not – you lie to me again and we're done."

"Ok" Castiel breathes, hand falling to press at Dean's chest. He drops to his knees on the worn planks of the porch, his other hand finding Dean's fly in the dark. The older man hisses a breath.

"Cas..."

"Tell me what to do" Huge blue eyes look up at him, innocent and damned at the same time. "You promised...you'd tell me."

With Dean's strong fingers at the base of his skull, Castiel works his mouth around his cock, slip-sliding up and down with each tug on his hair. His eyes are half closed, hand rubbing himself through his slacks. Dean moans brokenly with each pass of his lips, thighs opening and clenching. It's sloppy and almost too wet but watching Castiel rock on his knees, moaning with each pulse of pre-come that slicks his tongue...it does a lot for Dean. He comes fast and with only a stuttered "Holy...fu-" to warn the younger man. Castiel swallows valiantly, a small trickle of spunk still managing to escape and creep over his clean shaven jaw.

"Nice boys like you..." Dean struggles to regain his breath. "shouldn't look that good, with come on their faces." Castiel's thumb finds the rivulet, holding it up to his mouth to be sucked clean. Dean lets out a harsh breath. Castiel moves himself into Dean's lap, lying like a satisfied cat, skinny hips emphasising the bulge that still strains his slacks. He kisses the older man's throat slackly.

It's an uneasy peace but it lasts.

Castiel is invited to Sam and Jess's housewarming gathering. In turn he invites Dean cautiously, knowing that this is a test for them.

Dean agrees to go. On the day, Castiel collects him. Dean has washed his hair and put on a green button down and black dress pants. He looks distinguished, even with his calloused hands and scuffed shoes. Castiel kisses him and drives them to Sam's new home.

Of course it doesn't go well. Sam's invited Zach, Alistair and Ruby – all the Stanford crowd. They spend the whole thing ignoring Dean and taking about their stocks, how nice the catering is and where everyone summered. Castiel flicks his eyebrows apologetically at the older man, but it doesn't alleviate his discomfort. He's older than most of the people here and yet he knows nothing. He can contribute nothing of worth to the discussion. They look at him like a slightly unpleasant curiosity, something that Castiel has unwisely acquired. Exotic but ultimately worthless.

Dean escapes to the restroom, planning to sneak a cigarette, he's barely to puffs into it when the door opens behind him. One of the younger guests steps through and closes the door, giving Dean a curious and not entirely friendly look.

There's a long silence as he goes to the mirror, eventually broken when he asks, with a slight smirk,

"So what do you do?"

Dean's caught out, smoking in the washroom, all shiny marble and chrome, tumbler of neat whisky balanced on the cistern. The guy who caught him is clean cut and soft skinned, like Castiel but harder in the eyes. He's watching Dean in the mirror as he washes his hands, spritzing cologne.

"Food preparation." He's not going to run, he's ten years older than this little shit, and he's worked for every damn thing he owns. No way he's backing off.

"Like catering?"

Dean takes a breath.

"No, I work at a White Castle, I'm a server."

"Oh" a moue of distaste graces the other mans youthful features. "that must be...interesting."

"Yeah. Pays the bills as well." Dean smirks dryly, taking a slug of his drink and feeling it burn through him.

"So, How have you managed to hang on to a man like Castiel?" The implications are there, but Christ, the only thing Dean can think is that Castiel is barely a 'man', he's a boy – cut up by tragedy too young.

"I guess I give a good blow job." He lets his accent come out to play, roughening himself beyond ridicule, he wants to scare this fucker.

"I bet you do." He remains unmoved, eyes raking over Dean's reflection. Because it's obvious that the only thing a man like Dean has to offer a rich boy like Cas is a good fuck.

"I bet you don't." He sneers, returning the scathing once over with interest. The other guy looks away first, Dean leaves the bathroom feeling slightly better, but still pretty bad.

Castiel is rich and young and cultured. He listens to opera voluntarily, knows about designer clothing and politics and art. Dean's got his GED, his Doctor Sexy on TiVo and a working knowledge of male anatomy. They have nothing to hold them together beyond what he can do to Castiel's body.

Castiel is at his side almost the minute he steps out of the washroom, his hand gently touches Dean's waist. Dean shakes his head, he's fine or at least, he doesn't want Cas to feel like he's dragged him into the lion's den.

Castiel doesn't seem fooled, his arm stays around Dean's waist as he talks to some old school friends. His fingers idly lift the hem and stroke the skin just underneath. Despite himself Dean is comforted.

Over the carefully catered luncheon conversation turns to Anna, principally because Michael decides it should. Dean squirms internally, knowing that they all loved her, the sainted pale creature that populates the photo's in Castiel's home. He himself wonders how Castiel came to want him – when before he loved such a perfect woman.

Castiel bears the 'such a waste of life' 'so beautiful' and 'so kind' remarks for as long as he can.

"That's enough" he murmurs, but even so the entire table stills.

"Cas..." Michael is still smiling, but it has an edge, like he wants Castiel to let it go, to allow them to memorialise Anna in front of Dean.

"I said, that's enough." Castiel dabs his mouth lightly with a napkin, setting it aside. "Anna...has been dead for two years, and I" his face struggles to remain impassive. "I...cannot express how deeply I feel her loss. But this exercise in character assassination has gone far enough."

"How can you bring him here?" Alistair almost snarls. "You replace Anna, with white-trash, a _man_ Castiel, and we are supposed to respect that decision?"

"As my friends, yes, that is exactly what I expect of you." Castiel stands and Dean does the same, still looking only at Castiel. "You can honour my wife by emulating her compassion, Dean." He takes his elbow and leads him away from the table.

Once they reach his car he's shaking with anger.

Dean covers Castiel's hand on the wheel, squeezing gently.

Castiel drives them back to his home.


	3. Chapter 3

_Inspiration struck when someone reviewed that I didn't have to stick with the original movie plot. I didn't really like that ending – sweet but a little Hollywood. With that in mind – here's some angst _

Although Dean doesn't say anything about the disastrous party he doesn't call Castiel either. A week of unanswered messages and watching his darkened bungalow later, Castiel finally breaks.

He drives to the White Castle and parks up, going inside to find a squirrelly looking shorter man serving in Dean's place. The man takes one look at Castiel over the crowded and greasy counter.

"You're Cas, right?"

"Yes, where's..."

"I'm Chuck...Dean, uh...he said you might come around, looking for him."

"Where is he?" Castiel's voice sharpens as he senses something wrong.

"He's gone" Chuck says, bluntly. "He quit a week ago, just walked in and tore up his punch card. I heard he moved out to New York."

"Do you know anything more than that?"

Chuck shakes his head.

So he'd lost him. Dean, the first person he'd genuinely enjoyed the company of since Anna died. A source of comfort, conversation and truly amazing sex.

And hell, if he's being honest, perhaps the focus of the first glimmer of love that has managed to resurface from the broken place inside of him.

Dean is gone.

Across the state, Dean is getting ready to go to work. His hair is clean and he's pressed a white dress shirt. His black jacket is slung over a chair, waiting. He works as a host in a small Italian restaurant. It's not a Michelin star place, but it beats the hell out of selling burgers.

He's enjoying himself. Though he's the oldest guy on the wait staff and he hasn't made a single friend since he moved into his new apartment. But it's only been a week.

He takes in his reflection in the spotty mirror, behind him the drab apartment with its rented furniture glowers back.

He misses Castiel.

There, he admits it.

Somehow his drunken charity fuck became the one person he can't be without. Someone who he'd run from just to avoid his inevitable rejection. Because he knows that's where they were headed. Men like Dean were not made for boys like Castiel. Dean is older, harder inside and lost with no hope of turning his life around. Castiel is new, and young and special. He can still make himself happy.

So this is his life now. An apartment in the city, a reasonable job in a restaurant and a decent pay packet. He has so little down time it barely makes a difference if he has friends or not.

Dean goes off to work.

Castiel sits in his deserted home, listening to opera playing several darkened rooms away. Dean has left an impression on him like a bed once slept in. His scent and touch linger indelibly.

Castiel has lost the only two people he has ever loved.

Broken isn't the word.

They pass Dean's birthday, the mark of his forty-fourth year, separate and alone. Dean never told Castiel the date, consequently he does not forget, but rather mourns the loss of the entire month. Dean works a double shift and downs half a bottle of tequila afterwards. He wakes up groggy the next morning feeling old and shivery. What he longs for in that moment is a warm body curled against his back, whispering 'good morning' and offering good coffee and better company.

He knows that's exactly what he wants because he experienced it once, the only night he stayed at Castiel's home.

Instead he gets his mildewed shower, a grim ejaculation onto the grey tiles. Yesterdays re-heated coffee and a solitary few hours snuggling against blankets that lost their warmth as soon as he left them.

His hangover intensifies, the Tylenol bottle is empty and there's no one to get some more.

Dean does not cry, too old, too dried out for that. But he closes his eyes, feels a spasm in his throat like a dry heave – a trapped sob. He hasn't felt this emptied out since Ben died. The closest thing a deadbeat queer like him had to a kid – his friend Lisa's son. Killed in a car accident years ago. He remembers the call from Lisa, the way she hadn't wanted him to come to the funeral. Her husband had always been weird about him spending time with Ben.

A lance of fear hits him, Castiel could be dead, or hurt and no one would call him. No one even knows who Dean is or where he lives now. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, curling his large body in on itself until his muscles burn. He can't think about it, he needs to stay away from Castiel, in reality and in his own mind.

Castiel is doing his best to find Dean, unbeknownst to him.

He's checked the address on Dean's last pay slip, some PO box in town which told him absolutely nothing. He's let himself into Dean's empty home with the spare key – no clues. Called and been chewed out by everyone in Dean's contact list.

No one knows where he is, and if they do they aren't telling.

He's quit his job, not that he needed it anyway, he can keep himself comfortable on his savings. He's selling his house, which helps. His realtor is finding him a place in New York, which he knows is ridiculous, but he can't shake the feeling that he stands a better chance of finding Dean if they're in the same place.

He moves at the end of January, with no one to say goodbye to.

Dean works more and more late shifts now. His pay is racking up, more than he spends on rent and booze anyway. Sometimes, lonely on his few off nights and caught in the kind of frustration that hits red blooded, libido driven men like himself, he contemplates hiring himself someone. Just some guy of the street with dark hair and a soft mouth.

He doesn't, because somehow the idea of someone else's mouth on him rips him up inside. The thought of waking up with someone else's arms around him is worse.

He's working late on this particular night, waiting at the wooden stand by the door to greet customers and take reservations. It's fairly slow this time of night, only a few people who've been to a show, or impulsive couples on a night out. The restaurant is a level down from the street, so he can see people's legs coming down the steps towards him, but not the cars or pedestrians above.

A pair of sneakers pad down the concrete and Dean sighs. Sure it's not a fancy place but he has to turn away anyone without proper shoes, some rule of the management. He hates doing it, and he really doesn't need the grief right now, or ever in fact.

"Sorry buddy, no shoes, no service." He says, flicking through his reservation book as a diversion.

"I'm wearing shoes."

He looks up, that voice is horribly familiar. It's Sam, Castiel's friend whose party he went to once, months ago.

"Uh...not the right kind, sorry." He tries not to look him in the eye, because really? He doesn't want this to be taken personally, and it will be if he's recognized.

"Oh, come on, it's what? Midnight, who'm I going to piss off?" Sam's clearly a little drunk.

"House rules, sorry." Sam blinks at him.

"Hey...hey I know you...you're Cas's...boy toy, or whatever..." He frowns, apparently not trying to insult Dean but too happy to notice. And he is happy, grinning all over his puppyish face. "He's been looking for you...he hasn't called me in a while, but everyone knows about him moving up here and asking around trying to find you...and I found you." He frowns extravagantly. "I was just looking for pizza."

"We have that too" Dean mutters, stunned. "Castiel, he moved here? To New York?"

"Yup" Sam shakes his head "Which is messed up, he loved that house. Well...it was his and Anna's so I guess..." he looks at Dean again. "You ran away?"

"Yeah...just shut up for a second, let me think."

"You're a little old to be running away." Sam mumbles to himself. Dean ignores him.

Castiel is in New York. Castiel came to find him.

"Hey, Sam? Do you know where Castiel lives?" Sam rubs his eyes.

"An apartment...uh...I can take you there. It's in the village."

"What's he doing there?"

"Looking for you" Sam rolls his eyes hard. "s'like you're not even paying attention."

Dean and a cheerful Sam make their way to Castiel's apartment, he isn't there but his neighbour lets them into the building once Dean explains that he and his 'brother' are old friends of Cas's who ended up catching an earlier flight to visit him. He sits with his back to the wall beside Castiel's front door, legs sprawled across the dingy carpet. He can't imagine Castiel living in a place like this, someone so cultured and downright beautiful slumming it in a standard apartment block.

He's just drifting off, head against the door jam, when he hears footsteps and then,

"Dean?" Castiel is poised, about to unlock a door at the other end of the hall. Dean gets to his feet quickly, kicking Sam in the process.

"Ok, wrong door, not a good start." He rubs a hand against the back of his head. "Hi, Cas."

Castiel looks different. Well, that's an understatement. He's just as clean and well kept as ever, but he's wearing a baggy blue sweater and dark jeans with high-tops. There are grocery bags on the floor next to his feet.

And right now he only has eyes for Dean. Which in the older man's book makes him all the more attractive.

"How did you find my...oh, hello Sam." Castiel frowns down at his friend. "Why didn't you use the key I gave you."

"Oh you're kidding me." Dean's brow wrinkles. "I've been sitting on the floor for three hours, for nothing?"

"Not nothing" Castiel says quickly. "I'm glad you waited...I'm glad you're here...period." he falters. "Dean...I..."

"I'm sorry" Dean interrupts. Castiel looks taken aback. "I'm forty-four I should know better than to run off like that...it was a dick move, so...sorry." he looks down at Castiel's grocery bags. "you...uh...want some help with those." Castiel nods. Together they get all the bags into the kitchenette, then usher Sam inside and onto the couch. Dean has no idea what time it is but it feels late, or just very early by this point.

Castiel looks exhausted. Dean feels like he could drop any minute.

"Dean" Castiel catches his gaze and looks at him like he's afraid he's going to run away. "I missed you...so much, while you were gone." He takes a breath. "I shouldn't have lied to you about Gabriel's party, and I shouldn't have taken you to Sam's..."

"Cas..."

"Wait, I want...I want to do this. I shouldn't have taken you to Sam's because I shouldn't have been there. I...don't really like being around people like Zachariah or Ruby. I only stay in contact with Sam because he's a genuine friend."

Sam snores loudly.

"Really?" Dean smiles nervously.

"He brought you here." Castiel says, softly. "and he helped me move..." he shifts back to his previous train of thought. "I realised I was wrong to protect myself from their scorn, I should have been protecting you. You matter." His eyes harden. "They do not."

"Well then..." Dean's never been good with talking like this.

Castiel smiles hesitantly, then closes the space and kisses him, shyly, on the lips. Dean responds quickly and within seconds their mouths are interlocking hungrily, messily leaving smudges of dampness across the surrounding skin. It's Dean who eventually pulls away, hands still on Castiel's belt.

"I feel bad for saying it...but if I don't get some sleep now...I might pass out." He looks Castiel hesitantly in the eye, aware that refusing to have sex might result in another rift. "if that's ok, I mean."

Castiel frowns, taking Dean's hand from his belt and leading him by it towards the bedroom. Once there he closes the door quietly and wraps Dean into a hug.

"Of course it's ok. Dean, I meant what I said, you matter to me...and I'm glad you're here." He presses a chaste kiss to the older man's temple. "so let's get some sleep."

The next morning Dean wakes up with Castiel wrapped around him like an octopus. Legs and arms twisted up with his own, face against his collar bone. Dean's holding him just as tightly. It almost makes up for all the months of loneliness it took to get him here.

Castiel eventually gets up to make coffee, Dean stays in bed, listening to Sam groan into wakefulness, talking to Castiel.

"So...you're with that guy now, huh?"

"I was before Sam" comes Castiel's even reply.

"Yeah but...we thought that was just a fling or something. I mean, after Anna I figured maybe you couldn't even think about another woman."

There's a long pause.

"Not that I'm saying that's why you're with him" Sam covers, quickly. "I just..."

"I'm with him" Castiel says neutrally "because he picked me up in a bar, blind drunk, and seduced me, it was amazing...and I keep coming back for more." A smile tinges his words. "and because I love him, there's that."

Dean settles back against the still warm pillows, smelling coffee as a warm weight forms in his chest. Castiel loves him...how about that?

_Sorry if this came out too sweet, I was kind of going for a 'relationship' vibe, as opposed to more of the sex and conflict of the previous chapters. Not sure if it came off._


End file.
